


Power Abroad

by ljs



Series: the Power stories [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can be read as a standalone (with established Mycroft/Anthea) or as Story 2.5 of the Power Series, a year after "Comforting Power."</p><p>Wherein Mycroft and Anthea run an op in Los Angeles against one of Moriarty's followers, joined by a dirty, disreputable, seemingly homeless person who hasn't smelled that bad since he blew up an outbuilding on the family estate when he was ten; wherein there are disagreements about operational protocol and sartorial choices, there is Mozart, and there are barriers upon barriers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Abroad

The curtains in this Ritz-Carlton suite are open to the Hong Kong night, but there's tempered glass and distance between the world and Mycroft Holmes. He lies in bed, head pillowed on his forearms, watching the lights below and listening for Anthea. His body is still, his muscles loose after good sex and one of her special massages. His mind, however, is speeding through the plan for what will be the equivalent of two days from now (given time zones and a nonstop flight to California ahead).

“Mycroft,” she says from the general vicinity of the door.

“My dear.” He rolls over onto his back and smiles at her.

She's dressed for travel in one of her favourite black trouser ensembles, her hair still damp from her bath. Her suitcase and briefcase are at her feet. Her eyes, he can see from here, are troubled. “I'm still not particularly happy about this op, you know.”

He's identified three danger-points for her in the coming game, none of which he's particularly happy about either – especially the two before he sees her again. Yet her extreme competence is one of the reasons he loves her. “You'll be fine,” he says comfortingly.

She drops down on the bed beside him and smooths what's left of his centre curl off his forehead. The gentleness of her hand is countered by the snap of her voice. “You ass, I'm not worried about me.”

That remark doesn't merit a response, but the lingering distress in her eyes does. He cautiously lifts himself onto an elbow and reaches out for her with his other hand – yet stops, cognizant that he's “Still a bit oily, my dear, I'm sorry.”

“Then be careful about it.” She puts his outstretched hand on her nape – his palm fitting itself possessively against her neck – and then leans forward to meet him. Their mouths touch, caress, cling for a moment before letting go. She smiles at him, kisses him once more, then rises to her feet. “Don't forget to text me.”

He considers throwing a pillow at her, but discards the notion. Instead – because it will tease her more – he rests on his elbows and surveys her, long and disdainfully. 

Her mouth quirks. Laughing: “Right, I know you won't forget, you and your elephantine memory. See you when I see you, darling.” 

“Are you going to take your orchids?” He nods at the flowers he bought her when they first arrived for the unofficial economic summit two days ago.

“I don't think even Upper Class has the right facilities to keep those blooms fresh,” she says. “Enjoy them for me.”

“I'll only be fourteen hours or so behind you, Anthea dear.” They smile at each other. Then he adds, because he can't help it, “Tell him I said hello.”

“You'll tell him yourself.”

She drifts a finger down his naked chest, and then makes a visible effort to turn away. Without looking back she goes to the door, collects her luggage – he's been unable to train her to call a porter; far too independent for that, his Anthea – and silently departs. 

He doesn't say goodbye. It's irrational, he's fully aware of the folly of it, but nevertheless he doesn't speak the word to her. Ever. 

He stares at the closed door for a long moment, and then climbs out of bed. The towelling robe provided by the Ritz-Carlton is on the armchair: he shrugs into it but does not belt it. After all, here in this glass box, no one can see him.

Mycroft Holmes has made a habit of encasing himself in glass boxes – the reflection dazzling the onlooker, the real man moving freely inside. 

For the next hour he studies his notes for his breakfast meeting with two Ministers of Finance, but part of his mind goes with her through security, through the mazes of check-in, through the tedious process of settling herself in her seat. At the moment she should be taking off, he pushes his papers away and stands at the window, gazing unseeingly at the lights far away. The world glitters, all dangerous edges, but tempered glass and distance are his protection.

…................................................

“Mr Holmes, this is the time you requested we wake you.” The flight attendant's voice is soft but insistent.

Mycroft isn't asleep, actually. He managed a few hours, but since then he's been gazing into the darkened First-Class cabin, his mind testing the simple plan for flaws. He'd argued it out with Anthea and then online with his Los Angeles conspirator, but it never hurts to revisit the preparations.

Now he collects his garment bag and overnight case, and goes to the nearest lavatory. It's foul in there (it always is), but he's accustomed. He washes himself as best he may and manages a shave, then turns to the fresh set of clothing he's brought.

It's a relatively well-made, albeit made-to-measure, linen-silk jacket and trousers from a Hong Kong tailor he occasionally frequents. Anthea had been frankly skeptical as he'd chosen the navy blue jacket and sand-coloured trousers (to go with his suede lace-ups brought from home). “Darling,” she said, standing there in the quiet shop while the city had bustled outside, “you do know we're going to _Los Angeles_ , not Cairo in the 1930s?” He retorted that he wouldn't have worn a blue jacket in Cairo in the 30s, and besides, the whole point was to stand out. She hadn't been at all happy with the reminder. 

He hesitates now, his hand on the jacket, but it's only for a moment. He changes swiftly into the clean new clothes, including a white shirt which by his standards is casual, and ties his club tie in what he considers a desperately louche knot. He even unbuttons the top button of his shirt. Then he goes back to his seat and changes into his casual shoes. 

When his cup of tea arrives at his seat, he's ready.

The landing at LAX is smooth, their glide into dead-blue mid-afternoon. The text he receives at landing tells him that all is in motion: the game's afoot. He responds with a brief _Excellent. MH._

When he steps out of the plane into the curving corridor, he tastes the metal in the air, and the desert, and makes himself swallow them down. 

As expected, the first person he sees when he walks into the terminal proper is young Alexander Caton. “Alex,” he says, extending his hand.

“Mr Holmes,” Alex says, a flush under his California tan, his blue eyes as wide and guileless as they were when Mycroft had recruited him from Trinity, Cambridge twelve years ago. He had left Mycroft's employ a few months after Anthea's arrival – perhaps recognising that her brilliance put into sharp relief his inadequacy and failure to live up to early promise– and had moved into diplomatic work. He's been attached to the Los Angeles Consulate-General for some two years.

The handshake confirms what Mycroft already knew, and he smiles at the young man.“Now, Alex. As I said when you left my department, you may call me Mycroft.”

“Mycroft,” Alex says, his flush deeper. Perhaps he's remembering the farewell party where he'd got terribly drunk and made Mycroft a slightly sloppy proposition of fellatio in the men's cloakroom. While Mycroft is of the opinion that it's generally imprudent for an unattached man to turn down honest offers of cock-sucking – at least those which don't threaten national security, for how often do such ones present themselves, really? – he had made an exception in this case. Although at that point otherwise uncommitted (despite Anthea already having made her mark on him), he hadn't been particularly tempted: there is the question of honesty and character.

“You needn't have come to greet me,” Mycroft says, falling into step beside the young man. “As Anthea Matheson no doubt told you, I'm only here for a day or two. Private business.”

“Anthea? Oh yes. Oh yes, she rang the consulate this morning and said you would be arriving. She didn't come to see me, however.” Alex's eyes shine. “I was disappointed.”

Mycroft's grip tightens on the handles of his overnight case, but his voice remains easy. “She's some business of her own, I understand. I'll see her at our hotel later.”

“Yes,” Alex says. Mycroft waits for more, for Alex to pick up on one of the dropped tidbits, but nothing is forthcoming. That in itself is telling.

As they move down to street level, there is casual talk of Consulate business, including a new initiative to incentivise (horrible word) new investment in British operations. Mycroft smiles at that, a little grimly. When Alex asks about baggage, Mycroft says that he has everything.

“I've a car waiting for you, then. Compliments of the Consulate. Do you require a driver?” Alex says.

“No, thank you. You've been most helpful.” They emerge into shaded brightness, where a late-model black Mercedes purrs at the kerb despite hovering security forces. At Alex's gesture a uniformed driver gets out and holds the door open for Mycroft, who says, “I expect I'll see you later.”

“Right. Tomorrow at the consulate, any time.” Alex smiles and steps back.

Mycroft smiles back and then throws his luggage into the front passenger seat. As soon as he's in the driver's seat and the door's closed, his smile drops away as if it's never been there. The pathetic _fool_. 

First he dons a pair of round wire-framed sunglasses (Anthea has made merry with his choice of frames in the past, but he ignores that memory). Then he plays with the rearview mirror – yes, a camera, easily jiggered offline – and touches the overhead light as well. There's another camera, but this one he'll leave for the moment.

He puts on the radio, finding a classical station first shot, and pulls out into the drive leading out into the world.

Los Angeles International Airport is not in what one might call the most salubrious part of the city, despite the good efforts of some of the nearby merchants and hoteliers. Mycroft drives north on Sepulveda until he reaches one of those nasty, anonymous strip malls, and pulls into the car park of what the Americans call a convenience store. He reaches down into his overnight bag and pulls out his tablet.

If young Caton has done even the slightest bit of research into Mycroft's recent habits, he'll know that Mycroft wouldn't use a dash-mounted GPS or internal automobile computer; the GPS on his own tablet is his preferred tool. Mycroft gives Alex the show he must want, firing up the tablet and going to the GPS location finder.

And then he moves his head just a bit and touches the overhead light. Muttering a manufactured imprecation, he reaches up to 'assess' the damage to the light – and turns off that camera too.

He then runs a special application on his tablet, which indicates there are two tracking devices in the interior of the car. These devices he leaves in operation; his tablet he shuts down and locks.

He gets out of the car and locks it, then walks into the convenience store, brushing past a dirty, sun-browned blond fellow who appears to have been sleeping rough most of his young life. The smell of the man is truly incredible. Mycroft coughs, and then goes to the coffee machine in the corner of the shop.

The homeless man follows hard upon Mycroft's heels. “Can you spare a buck or two, mister?” he says in a Californian surf-bum accent, his hand on Mycroft's arm.

It's all Mycroft can do to keep his cover when he turns and looks into his brother's eyes – first time since Prague, four months ago. But really, the stench is remarkable, almost as bad as the time when Sherlock was ten and blew up one of the drains on the estate doing something irresponsible with sulphur. Mycroft says coolly, “Hello, no, sorry.”

Sherlock clutches harder: there's going to be a dirty handprint there on the new jacket. _Wholly_ characteristic of him. “Just one or two?”

“If I had two dollars, I certainly wouldn't give it to you. Surely you'd need more to wash yourself, regardless.” Mycroft glances around the shop. In the far corner, not quite hidden by boxes of Coca-Cola, is a female figure in sports clothes and white cap, a brunette braid pulled through the hat's back opening; Mycroft restrains himself from gritting his teeth: he told Anthea she wasn't to use a double for herself; she has been explicitly instructed not to call attention to herself beyond her (real) role as his romantic partner, else she'll jeopardise her work in running Sherlock. (To say nothing of what Anthea in danger does to Mycroft's heart.) There's also a man lurking by the door. He's wearing downmarket gear, but his stance and hair suggest him to be ATF or DEA or FBI or one of those tedious initial-farms in which the Americans so delight, any of which would be appropriate for this op.

Everything's in order, then, not that they particularly needed this check-in. The stop is more for Mycroft's peace of mind than anything else, although it also gives Caton time to do whatever he's planning on doing – something stupid, Mycroft assumes. With the banter about washing, Mycroft's confirmed the oceanside meet as well. (It's a ridiculously public place. It's Sherlock's idea. Alas, the link of these two things are inevitable.)

He finishes pouring himself the coffee – which smells almost worse than Sherlock, if that's possible – and then pays for it and leaves.

His phone buzzes as he's getting into the car. A text, from Anthea: _I've done what you asked me, darling, and am just off. Will you be late?A._

He smiles. This message confirms that thanks to Sherlock's good efforts these past two months, the arrests of the higher-level people in this particular gang has been accomplished. _I hope to be on time, my dear, barring traffic. MH._

As he drives off, he sees Sherlock emerging from the convenience store – his brother, framed in the mirror, separated from him by the reflection.

Interstate 405 is slow, but not yet wholly stop-and-go; it's still the earliest moments of the afternoon rush hour. Still, Mycroft makes the two pursuers before they all reach the first exit: a black town car and a standard late-model Japanese sedan.

He turns down the radio – playing the first movement of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” how hackneyed – and keeps driving, keeps well ahead of them.

This would be one of the parts of the op Anthea has been most concerned about, of course. A kill-shot from a distance would be Mycroft's own preference for a threat who had no value as an asset, and Caton should know by now that his cover's blown and Mycroft can't be turned. However, Mycroft has a fair idea of Caton's weaknesses (besides indiscretion, dishonesty, and dishonour, of course), and melodrama is one of them. He'll want another face-to-face.

In other words, James Moriarty taught Alex Caton all the wrong things. Sad.

Mycroft goes well past the earliest turnoff toward the ocean, only exiting the motorway at the Santa Monica Boulevard. At the first red traffic signal, he reaches into his overnight bag and pulls out a small nondescript box. One touch at the second button, and the tracking devices are jammed. There's no need to make it too easy for Caton, he thinks.

When he accelerates at the green light, however, his phone buzzes. This is not in the plan, and although he can't quite spare the attention from the road and the followers, he picks up the phone. It's Anthea, ringing not texting. Through a sudden wave of cold, he clicks on. “Hello.”

“Hi, darling. I don't think I'll be where you expect to see me,” she says. He swallows terror and admiration – no one else could announce she's been captured with such style. No, wait. That nonchalance suggests that she's running a secondary game hitherto undisclosed, for which he'll chide her later.

“Where then should I expect to see you, my dear?” he says now.

“The oceanside park in Santa Monica? Around--”

“Across from the intersection of Ocean Drive and Montana Drive, if you would, Mycroft,” comes young Caton's voice.

“Certainly,” Mycroft says, and cuts the connection, and punches the gas pedal.

As he makes his circuitous way to the rendezvous point, driving significantly faster than the speed limit and without (as far as he can see) his pursuit, he recalculates. It's a different kind of public place, then: no cover, which Sherlock's choice of the Santa Monica Pier area had afforded; residential, with too many civilians; near the steep hillside leading to the beach. Caton would see a resonance, perhaps, in forcing a fall. And this time no one would be below to catch the one falling.

Melodrama, again. So tedious. If there weren't a deep unpleasant fear lurking in his chest, he'd laugh.

His phone buzzes again. A text this time, an unregistered number. _Aware of change. On site._

Mycroft is not exactly sure if he's pleased that Sherlock is so well informed, but he's glad that those accompanying Sherlock are. It's always helpful to have backup. 

He parks the Mercedes on a street two blocks from the new rendezvous. Before he gets out, he retrieves three thin, heavy wood-and-steel cylinders from his luggage and screws them together to make a walking stick – which will serve as a weapon, should it come to that. Then, his stick resting on his shoulder as if it were his umbrella, he strides to the right intersection on Ocean Drive.

At another time he'd appreciate the landscaping and hard structures of the sliver of park opposite where he stands, the vista of sand and ocean and sky beyond its sharp edge. But Anthea stands with Caton very near that edge, and he can't think of much else – 

Except that a quick survey also shows him several multi-story mansion blocks on his side of the street. Any window might have a sniper.

He makes his saunter across Ocean Drive _especially_ annoying then, just for spite. As he steps onto the kerb, he calls, “All right, my dear?”

“Red-faced, darling. I let this little boy into my car when I was on my way to meet you,” she calls back, words almost stolen away by the wind.

There is no way in heaven or hell that Anthea could have been so fooled, which means.... Which means he's going to kill her and Sherlock later for this, the situation has the greasy thumbprints of his little brother all bloody over this. Hiding vengeance in his heart, he smiles. “Alex, really? This is how you face defeat after your Moriarty-organised operation is blown?”

“It's not defeat yet, Mycroft.” Alex lets Mycroft see the glint of a revolver in his palm, and gestures with his chin toward the nearest mansion-block. Yes, there's another glint off metal in a second-story window. “Miss Irene Adler told me that you're amenable to reason. I, like Miss Adler, have several things you'll want to deal for –“

“No, you really don't.” Mycroft sees out of the corner of his eye a movement on the hillside below the edge, and sighs. “Alex, I am desperately disappointed in you. For the gun-running, for the drug-dealing, and above all, for being such a little _twat_.”

At this point Anthea throws a perfectly placed blow to drive Alex's nose back into his stupid skull, Sherlock clambers up onto the greensward and then does a quite impressive strike to send Alex's gun spinning away unfired, and Mycroft pulls Anthea out of the way of the bullet singing down from that flat window on Ocean Drive.

Thirty seconds later the glint in the second-story flat window is replaced by what looks like an arrest with prejudice, the park is aswarm with American alphabet-agents who secure young Caton with dispatch, and the British Consul herself, Mycroft's old friend Dame Elizabeth Montague, emerges from the throng. “Mycroft, Anthea, hello,” she says. “And is this–?”

“I'm currently incognito, if you don't mind,” Sherlock interposes, but he offers her his hand in a neat semblance of the manners Mummy had instilled in her sons. 

It is a mark of Eliza's sangfroid that she doesn't wince at the stench emanating from Sherlock but grips his hand warmly. Then she does the same to Anthea, and lastly to Mycroft. “Such a black mark on the consulate, young Caton,” she says. “Thank you for letting me know last week and keeping me informed throughout.”

“The least I could do. My fault that someone so unworthy was plucked from obscurity in the first place – unlike other, more stellar yet equally disobedient proteges,” Mycroft says. His arm tightens around Anthea's shoulders, and the woman slips her hand under his jacket and just under the waist of his trousers. Under his breath, just for her ears, he says bitingly, “Don't think you'll escape my shouting that way, my dear.”

“James and I would love for the three of you to come to dinner tonight,” Elizabeth begins, but Sherlock's already edging away, always elusive. 

Mycroft hurriedly makes Elizabeth their regrets – and reminds her that for the official record neither he, Anthea, nor Sherlock are here. Then he lets go of Anthea and moves to his brother's side, grasps his arm (more gently than Sherlock had done in the shop), and growls, “ _Never_ do that again.”

“What? Meddle in one of your plans?” Sherlock's grin is familiar. “But they're practically _made_ for meddling, brother dear--”

“Stop before you get us both in more trouble, Sherlock,” Anthea says from behind Mycroft.

“It would be neither physically nor metaphysically possible for either of you to be in more trouble, Anthea,” Mycroft says.

“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock says.

Mycroft has several pithy remarks about his little brother's overweening confidence and the folly therein, but... but he can't force them past his lips. Because here is Sherlock, dirty and disreputable and as alive as any being on this earth, warm in Mycroft's grasp. Here is Sherlock, bloody well saving those in harm's way. Here is Sherlock, full-stop.

What comes out of Mycroft's mouth is unexpected: “You're thoroughly ridiculous, you know. But I'm proud of you.”

“Don't be mawkish,” Sherlock says, and looks away in a consciously noble manner, his filthy hair (dyed reddish-blond for this particular game) ruffling in the ocean breeze. But he does manage a half-smile.

“Right. Well, do you need any more money?”

“I'm fully supplied for my wants, thank you, Mycroft.”

“Fine. Excellent.” Mycroft edges out a little further toward the emotional precipice. “Ah, is the current surveillance on 221B satisfactory, or would you like --”

“It's fine,” Sherlock says curtly. This time his pain is real, and palpable, and unanswerable: as Mycroft well knows, there is nothing worse than the consequences of one's own decisions, for there's no one else to blame. Then, “Besides, I'm on my way home, in a manner of speaking.”

“Yes. Yes, everything's planned. Only Moran is left to deal with,” Mycroft says. He lets go of Sherlock's arm. “Next time I'll see you in London. Unless Anthea and I can stand you supper tonight--?”

“No. I've a train to catch.” Sherlock's half-smile returns. “But first I'm going back to my temporary digs and taking the longest bath known to humankind.” With a casual not-quite-a-wave he strides off down the path, away from the alphabet-agents and villain and brother, solitary in the westering sun.

Anthea, still standing behind Mycroft, puts her arms around his waist and rests her cheek against his back. “He'll be fine,” she says quietly.

“I know.” With one hand, Mycroft covers both of hers, holding her to him; with the other hand, he leans on his walking stick and watches his brother disappear into the light which is tinted deepest amber by his sunglasses. 

She kisses his shoulder blade. “I must say, darling, I was wrong about this jacket. It matches the sky and sea perfectly.”

“My sartorial instincts should never be questioned, my dear.” He glances at her over his shoulder. “Don't think that compliments are the way to escape my shouting, either.”

“Well, then, let's collect your luggage and then go back to the hotel,” she says. Her laugh is deliciously filthy. “I look forward to my scolding.”

“Very amusing,” he says, and lifts her hand to his lips. But he doesn't move until Sherlock can no longer be seen.

….......................

Elizabeth kindly allows Mycroft the use of the consulate car until his and Anthea's departure the next day. The drive to their hotel, the Sunset Tower on Sunset Boulevard, gives them privacy for their... intense discussion of operational protocol, including Mycroft's articulation of the multiple _very good reasons_ for obeying the senior partner's instructions _to the letter_ , and Anthea's no less impassioned outlining of the equally numerous reasons the slightly more junior partner refuses to allow the senior partner to take all the risks in a game like today's. By the time they leave the car in the hands of the valet, they have agreed to disagree.

Once into their premiere suite – which has a stunning view of Los Angeles as night falls – he showers, and she orders room service. They eat their light chicken dish and salad, and then open a split of Champagne. 

Afterward, he indulges her in the promised scolding – or rather, as he redefines it, “tongue-lashing.” His interpretation of this has her muffling her pleasure-screams in a pillow, and when he moves over and into her, she wraps her legs around his waist and whips him on until he collapses, spent and heavy.

But he doesn't sleep. Can't, despite his weariness, jetlag catching up with him, time a weight on his shoulders.

So while Anthea rests in bed, he gets up and shrugs into the towelling robe kindly provided by the hotel management. He does not belt it, for he is again in his glass box, unseen by anyone but her.

Once Anthea asked him why he felt so guilty about so many things, why he couldn't release the burden of the choices he'd made. He told her then that he thought that a man without guilt wasn't wholly human.

Now, he leans against the wall and watches Los Angeles through the tempered glass, all glittering dangerous edges. He hears in his head the second movement (or third, depending on whom one asks) of “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” Romance, sad and slow. 

He closes his eyes. He hears it still. He is only human.


End file.
